Always a Woman
by Ralinde
Summary: 'Cause even if she's dangerous and she'll tear him apart without blinking, she's still a woman and he longs for her. Unrequited Rodolphus/Bellatrix. Written for the Hogwart Games 2012, category Rhythmic Gymnastics and the Music Awards Competition, category Classical.


_She can kill with a smile, she can wound with her eyes._

_She can ruin your faith with her casual lies._

…

_She can promise you more than the Gardens of Eden._

_Then she'll carelessly cut you and laugh while you're bleeding._

_She brings out the best and the worst you can be._

_Blame it all on yourself, 'cause she's always a woman to me._

_Billy Joel – She's always a woman (to me)_

~o0o~

My wife is the most dangerous woman on the planet. There, I've said it.

When I first met her, she was a sixteen-year-old, fierce and proud, deeming most of us unworthy of her attention. Something about her intrigued me, and it wasn't just her immaculate clothing or her articulated way of speaking. It wasn't even her dazzling beauty, though that's what makes most men turn their heads whenever they see her. No, she had this air about her that she'd always get whatever she wanted, no matter whom or what would be standing in her way; an air of ruthlessness that she concealed well with her aristocratic manners.

I met her again about a year later. We were teamed up to duel in _his_ honour. She wielded her wand with the confidence of one who knows how to use it and isn't afraid to inflict pain. If anything, her beauty had blossomed even more and she mesmerised me with her obsidian curls and the tantalizing way her curves were accentuated whenever she moved. In my dreams, my foolish teenage dreams, I would caress the lines of her frame, take in the subtle fragrance of her perfume and taste the mixture of sweet of salt that was her skin. I knew I wanted to make her mine, so I arranged matters with her father. She and I were both from families with impeccable reputation, so there was no reason why we shouldn't get married. I relished in the thought that she would be mine.

But she never really was mine, nor would she ever be. She was always _his,_ and always would be. She made that very clear when we celebrated our nuptial agreement. She had married me because it was expected of her by social standards. She had allowed me in her bed that night, again because it was what society expected of her. She was more than the goddess I'd dreamt her to be and I couldn't get it done. She would just lay there, impassive at my attempts to make her not only lawfully but also physically mine.

But she never really was mine, nor would she ever be. After that first time, she denied me access and refused me to touch her. But her eyes would shimmer whenever she was in _his_ presence, her face radiant with a devotion that was verging on obsession. _He _was allowed to touch her, yet I don't know if he ever made her physically his. I don't want to know. He is my master and I am but a humble servant. It is not my place to question him.

She has studied his ways and is notorious for her ability to always get the information she wants, no matter how unwilling her victim is to subject to her questioning. I followed her through hell and back because she holds me captivated with her uncanny smile, whispering promises that will never be kept. Yet I fall for it every single time.

Hell has tarnished her beauty, taken away whatever subtlety there still existed in her being. Hell has made me suffer too, but when I look at her gauntly face and her emaciated appearance, I want to hold her close. She'll never let me. The fanaticism has never left her eyes and she still graces him with the same ardour and zeal she had before. She is considered his most loyal servant, his fiercest warrior. Second in command and, according to some, a monster in disguise.

But she's also still a woman. And in my dreams, my foolish dreams, I follow the lines of her frame with my hands, I capture her essence with a smile and I devour her beauty. In my dreams, those foolish dreams, she's mine and I make her scream my name to confirm that fact. In reality, the purple bruises on her thighs are not my doing. They're his marks and she wears them with pride. He's her king and she's his queen. She'll go to hell again if he'd ask her to, killing those that dare oppose them and I, the jester, follow her wherever she goes. Even if she'll demolish me in the process.

_A/N: This was written for the Hogwarts Games 2012, category Rhythmic Gymnastics (write a story based on a song). The song was playing on the radio and it just immediately made me think of Bellatrix. It was also written for my own Pairing Diversity Boot Camp with the prompt 'jester' and owluvr's Character Diversity Boot Camp with the prompt 'obsession'. _


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